


Just A Game.

by Heartswell



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-01
Updated: 2008-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heartswell/pseuds/Heartswell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard and Frankie have their little game.<br/>It's not safe.<br/>But they do it anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Game.

"I'm gonna make your guts spill all over this floor and you'll be _so_ proud of me.

"I will, I will, I will; I'm gonna make you so fucking proud of me with this smile splashed across your eyes, bright red." My fingers slink and scramble, to kiss Frankie's little forehead, messing around with that huge barrel pressed snug and tight against it.

Frankie's my little toy, made to yo-yo in and out of wherever place I wanted him to yo-yo in; he's my cheery circus monkey that walks on that rope set and hung in the middle of the sea of circus lights, scary yellow-white that blinds your eyes, with no audience but those lonely amused claps echoing throughout his head; _my_ lonely amused claps. He was always walking that thin line, barefoot and dim-eyed, but he kept on doing it. Every time he was led to them.

Now it was time for those beads of sweat, pouring like crystal-dew, and soothing that burning hole digging rings between those knotted haughty eyebrows. Beads of sweat that cluttered his face instead of panic-stricken tears; he was a strong little bastard that boy. A bastard that messes with big scary guns and explosive moods that drag him on the floor and scrape him against the gravel to fall and sputter his insides like the left-to-be-dead butterfly he was.

"You're gonna be so proud watching me from hell, so proud." A face-ripping smile rides my cheeks as I kiss his broken cheek and pin him down, so close to the floor that I could see and touch every tile-bump and crease through his insides; all while that cold-hot barrel almost clinging to his brains if it wasn't for that alabaster-coated skull of his.

It was fun. _Yeah, fun.  
Who wouldn't wanna be God?_  
Playing with lives, playing with _Frankie's life_ like it was a bug's; _to squish or not to squish?_ Sounds like a simple question.  
And it is.  
Blow his brains out... or watch him watching me watch him waiting for his brains to stain his favorite t-shirt?  
 _Really_ simple. Just like the way his knuckles twisted and peeled under the small sharpened rocks that attacked his hands on the _road_ to the back of this room; that dark room; the one you don't notice; the one that's tucked away in obscure corners where things you don't wanna even dream of what happens.

Well, this is one of those things. One of those sick twisted choking-game type of things.  
Where your average quiet Gerard Way drags his sweeter than air Frankie and grinds that sweetness away with his sick quaint antics.  
Antics that start with a gun for Gerard and ends with a pain in the sides for Frankie.  
He was just this soft-eyed petite babydoll, all colored but still childish with haunting rotten-apple eyes.  
 _They just wouldn't die down._

"You should talk, Frankie. It's not nice to tire me with all this talk." But he's not gonna talk. I know he's not because he's watching me watch him watch me waiting for his lips to move. "Aren't you gonna talk, baby? _You should._ " _Click._ Ready and against his clammy skin, metal collided with swishes of dyed artificial black scented of splintered wood.  
"It wants you to, baby."

Frankie's eyelashes just flicker like wishes against those beads of salt invading his eyes, but not another sound. Only his breaths, pushing through numb pink flesh. If it wasn't for the shadows creeping on both of us, I would've thought that his rotten-apple retinas had spilled like dirty ink along his satin-pink cheeks and pout.  
"Talk, Frankie, talk... _TALK! FUCKING TALK!_ " God doesn't get ignored; he's the big man that no-one can hold down. _You need to talk to me, Frankie. It's not **nice**... **at all.**  
You always listen to me, Frankie. I'm not nice, Frankie... I can hurt you, Frankie... I can **kill** you, baby._  
Gun's hitting bone now, but no fire. He's still not talking. _And it's pissing me off._

 _Guess Angel boys don't fucking have any manners anymore._

"I'm pushing it, Frankie. It isn't a fucking game anymore. _I'm gonna push it, Frankie._ " He's almost glued to the ground now, our lips are almost touching but they never do. It's not a kissing game; _it's the 'Am I Gonna Kill You Today' game._

"Am I?" I grin, planting flaming kisses on his temples next to the cold metal. " _Am I, Frankie?_ "  
That's not a hard question, is it?

" _ **Am I?**_ " I hear my voice repeating, clenched teeth on their way to collapsing and shattering into cloudy pearls ready to choke me and him _if it was a kissing game... **but it's not.**_

" _It's a question. Every question needs an answer, wanna do the honors?_ " Frankie better talk right now. _This trigger seems a bit loose, needs some tuning up perhaps?_

 _You wanna smell some burnt hair and skin, Frankie?  
'Cause I sure as hell do._  
Nerves, nerves, nerves, I'm just a pile of nerves now and I'm sure he can see each and every one glowing with anger across my skin.

He's a part of the grimy tiles now; he's all patterns and tree-veins.  
 _Barrel's not so loose anymore and my nerves aren't all that nervous anymore. Just flames and flames curling around my fingers and black bangs mixing with the red of the blazes in my eyes.  
It's a game, Frankie... why don't you listen to me anymore, baby? You're gonna be so proud that I finally won **something**. Don't let the hit in the ribs bring you down. It's just a **game** ; a silly harmless game. You just gotta play by the rules, sweetie._

"Now, babe, _am I_?" It's burying deeper; _can it go deeper? You wanna know?_

"Frankie?" His ribs aren't biting mine anymore.

"Frankie?" His arms aren't straining.

" _Frankie?_ " I can't see the tiles through his insides.

" _FRANKIE?_ " His eyes are ripe-apple now.

"...Frankie?" _Clink._ Metal hits wood in a swarm of tiny big sounds and blood rush whirling in my eardrums.

Frankie's not breathing.

 _You should've played by the rules, baby.  
No rules._


End file.
